The Somme
by StarFormerAdira
Summary: It was a turning point in World War One, one of the bloodiest wars ever fought, and a horrible experience for Arthur.


**A/N: Wow, such an original title. This is nothing more than a quick, condensed story based on the Battle of the Somme, so if you're kinda disappointed by the ending, I'm sorry, but it wasn't supposed to be anything more than a quick fic. :)**

* * *

**The Somme**

It was quiet. It was all so very quiet. No sounds, no smells, nothing. His breath was horribly loud in his ears, and he feared that at any moment, it would give him away, and he would die.

Arthur's grip on his gun never wavered as he tried to keep as still as he could, heartbeat thundering in both his chest and his ears. The tree he was hiding behind was meager cover, but it was better than being out there in the open. He should've taken time to rub some dye into his hair. The colour was still too bright, even concealed under his helmet. And it had grown too long. A strand was tickling Arthur's cheek, and as much as he wanted to reach up and irritably brush it away, he knew that sudden movements were just begging for a bullet through his head.

_That bastard. He could be watching me right now and I'd never know!_

He had his bayonet. He had the ammunition. But now he just needed the target.

He advanced beyond the tree, getting closer to the small, perfectly circular clearing. He watched every step he took, stepping over or around the more suspicious-looking branches, but still, nothing happened. Arthur wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He was far enough away from the trenches and no-man's-land so that the sounds of the battle couldn't reach his ears, but he had chosen that for a reason. Under the cover of screams and the continuous pounding of guns, anyone could sneak up behind him and slit his throat.

And by anyone, he obviously meant Ludwig.

Francis and Alfred were watching the battle – he had expressively forbidden either of them to come with him, offering the argument that with the three of them, Ludwig had a better chance to hit someone. So he'd left them, barely concealed by the line of trees, watching over his own soldiers, with the promise that if they saw Ludwig there, they would tell him. He didn't have to waste time and energy in the woods if his enemy wasn't even present.

It was surprisingly cold that day, Arthur had observed grimly, as he pulled on his jacket again, trying to see if there was any more fabric to spare. He wasn't looking forward to the upcoming winter. If he even survived this day.

The clearing was deserted, as he had observed, but Ludwig could have a few guards posted here, just in case. The Englishman took cover behind another tree, this one slimmer, just as the whine of a bullet sounded out and a white-hot streak of pain sliced across his lower leg.

Arthur let out a sharp groan, and immediately clamped his hand over his mouth, his fingers shaking with the effort that it took to ignore the wound. He couldn't look at it now, although he could feel the blood seeping out and staining his trousers. It felt like the biggest and most brutal paper-cut he had ever had, but there was one positive thing about it – at least the bullet hadn't lodged in his leg. It had buried itself in the ground, marked by the thin trail of red.

"Dammit," Arthur swore under his breath, making sure his gun was ready and waiting before swinging it round and pointing it in the general direction that the weapon had fired from. He could only form one coherent thought: _don't go into the clearing. _If Ludwig could get him from here, then he would be a sitting target out there.

And he had thought it was a good, sensible plan, until he heard the snap of a twig behind him. He only had time to turn around and fire off one bullet before the butt of a gun hit him square in the forehead, sending him teetering on the edge of unconsciousness before reality dragged him back. He stumbled away, _into the clearing_, with Ludwig advancing in front of him, his weapon raised for another blow. As foggy-headed as the strike had made him, Arthur wasn't a good military man for nothing, and as the gun came whistling through the air again, he ducked and clumsily brought his own weapon up to meet it.

He was vaguely aware that Ludwig couldn't have shot at him and then made it around in time, so there must be someone else, perhaps hidden safely up in the trees, but all his energy was focused in keeping the man in front of him at a safe distance. Every time he put weight on his injured leg, his other automatically tried to compensate, and it was hampering his ability to walk. Ludwig, at the moment, had the advantage, and he knew it.

With a pitiful expression on his face, the German shoved Arthur's gun away and clipped him on the edge of the shoulder with the sharp point of his bayonet. Arthur gasped and lost his balance, collapsing on the ground as he felt the harsh pain begin to register.

He really wasn't off to a very good start.

Ludwig also dropped to the ground, yanking the bayonet off the end of his gun and pressing it against Arthur's chest. The green-eyed nation gripped Ludwig's wrist with both hands, but their strength wasn't equal and all Ludwig had to do was reach up with his other arm and break Arthur's wrist. The raw scream of pain echoed around the clearing.

Arthur cradled his wrist, trying to keep it from further harm, as the knife finally broke the surface of his skin, first having had to bypass his jacket and shirt. Ludwig watched eagerly as Arthur's expression become contorted, trying to resist the urge to shout out. Instead, words came to his mind and he spat them out desperately.

"Why don't you just shoot me and get it over with?" He grimaced as he saw consideration pass over Ludwig's features, before the knife was up to the hilt and there was a horrible burning feeling deep inside his chest, and someone was yelling – oh, it was him.

His first instinct was to arch his back, more in protest than anything else, but that would force the knife deeper, if it even _could _go deeper. Ludwig let it remain in Arthur's chest for a little, savouring both his expression and the sensation of the fluttering breaths on the back of his palm. Then, he pulled the bayonet upwards, meeting resistance and cutting right through it.

Arthur let out a strangled moan, and tried to roll onto his side to protective his internal organs, but Ludwig pushed him back and sat astride him, his sheer weight already bruising Arthur's legs. They were each in a sorry state after the effects of the war, but Ludwig had somehow managed to maintain his towering, muscular form, while all Arthur could do was scrounge as much food as he could and hope to keep free of infection that was ravaging the soldiers in the trenches.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. Ludwig had taken him by surprise, and had already inflicted some major damage to him. If it was going so badly here...what was it like on the actual battlefield?

He could not imagine. His soldiers, his men, loyal to their country, injured and dying and screaming out in pain. He had to stop this – he had to, it was his duty, but Ludwig had the upper hand, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Where the hell was Francis?! His men were out there too, even if the attack was made up of a significant portion of the British army. He and Alfred were watching the damn thing; they should've known something was wrong when they started losing!

_Goddammit_, Arthur realised_, we're losing. _

He was brought back to reality when Ludwig shifted, reliving the Englishman for a moment of his weight before crushing the air from his lungs again. Arthur panted heavily, drops of blood from the knife dripping down onto his face from where Ludwig held it aloof. He was clearly deciding where to plunge it next.

Arthur was desperately trying not to think about the implications of their positions – both so close to each other, almost too close, almost indecent – but possibilities were buzzing through his mind faster than the speed of light. If he _does_, can I scream loud enough to attract attention? If he _does_, will Francis and Alfred be able to tell from just looking at the battle? If he _does_, can I pick up enough pieces to reassemble myself and fight back?

Ludwig slipped the knife against Arthur's throat, pressing down hard, almost compressing his windpipe, and his free hand slid downwards, wiping blood across Arthur's jacket, and finally reaching the trembling legs, gripping fistfuls of fabric as though to rip them off.

_Shit...no, no, dammit, no!_

Determined to be strong, Arthur gritted his teeth. "What, are you going to do it? Just like you did to Bella? Do you remember that, you _bastard_?"

Ludwig's brow furrowed in anger and in a flash, the bayonet was gone from Arthur's throat and slid in beside his hipbone, a ghostly reminder of the pain that Ludwig _could _cause if he was given enough reason to. Arthur's feet pushed in vain at the ground, trying to propel his body away, but the grip on his waist was too hard and too unforgiving. He swore he could feel the sharp edge of the knife scrape against the bone, and shivers ran up his spine as his breathing turned ragged with agony. His hands scrabbled at Ludwig's chest, trying to find some sort of purchase so he could throw the German off, but that was wishful thinking, even for him.

It was then he heard it. And at first, he thought he had imagined it.

"_Arthur_!"

Was that Francis? It sounded like him. Arthur's eyes met Ludwig's, and they saw it confirmed in the other's gaze – if Francis was coming, then Alfred would be with him, and as strong as Ludwig was, he wasn't any match for Alfred.

"_Scheisse_," that thick German accent hissed as the blue-eyed man raised his head and glanced towards the direction that Francis' voice had come from. Arthur repressed the urge to say something sarcastic and triumphant, despite the pain. There was still a lot of damage one could do with a bayonet in twenty seconds, and neither Francis nor Alfred were the world's fastest runners.

Ludwig got to his feet, and cast a scathing look down at Arthur, blood dripping down from a long, red scratch across his neck from the one bullet the Englishman had managed to fire off before he was struck. Raising his hand and placing pressure on it as if he had only just realised it was there, Ludwig growled and raised the gun, hitting Arthur square on the cheek, forcing the side of his head to slam onto the ground. Blood was bubbling up in his mouth, no doubt due to the wound in his chest, and he spat it out, not caring where it went so long as the vile, metallic taste was out of his throat. It felt like Ludwig had caved in his cheek, that blow had been so hard. His teeth were still reverberating around in his skull.

"Arthur?"

"Arthur, where are you?"

The voices were closer now – _thank God_, Arthur thought groggily. Alfred was definitely coming, and finally Ludwig decided to leave, bending down and yanking on Arthur's hair harshly so his lips were at the Englishman's ear.

"Until next time," he murmured, before letting go and running away back into the forest, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as he had come.

Arthur immediately rolled onto his side, no strength left for him to stand up on his own, so he had to content himself with letting the blood spill out of the corner of his mouth. He didn't know how serious his injuries were – well, the broken wrist could be calculated, but had Ludwig caught any of his internal organs with that blasted bayonet? What if he'd got a lung, or even his heart? No, it couldn't have been his heart, he would be dying already, and a lung would make it more difficult to breathe than this...

The forest was starting to blur, already looking strange from Arthur's vantage point. He let out a strangled groan before closing his eyes and trying to will himself into unconsciousness. He couldn't be bothered about Ludwig's sniper now. When Alfred and Francis came, hopefully their presence would scare them away...

* * *

Ludwig watched as the two men thundered past him, guns up and ready, scanning the place desperately for Arthur. He waited for a few seconds, his brow furrowing irritably at the stinging of his neck, and then silently prowled back to where Elizabeta sat on one of the highest branches, a gun carefully balanced on her shoulder. She caught his gaze and nodded once, looking concerned about the red mark on his skin, but he shook his head, and she nodded again, returning her gaze to the clearing. Her dark hair was drawn back carefully into a ponytail, and her sleeves were rolled up. She breathed deeply before bending her head back down and focusing on the three figures right in the crosshairs of her gun.

Suddenly, just as she was about to fire, a voice rang out from a few metres behind.

"Elizabeta? Are you there? I need to speak with Ludwig!"

Elizabeta silently cursed her husband as Roderich appeared from behind a huge oak, abruptly catching sight of Ludwig and frowning. Ludwig shot a venomous glance at him before motioning for Elizabeta to come down. She looked longingly back at the exposed targets in front of her, but when Ludwig gave an order, it was usually right. She flicked the safety back on and swung the heavy gun onto her back, deftly climbing back down the tree until she reached her ally.

Roderich saw her descend and his eyes widened as he realised his mistake, but he wasn't one to apologise in a hurry. He beckoned to them, and they followed him back out of the forest, Elizabeta taking her hair band out and letting her locks flow back down past her shoulders. She caught up with Roderich, and took his hand.

"How did it go?" she whispered, aware of Ludwig's eagerness to know the answer to the question as well. Roderich smiled at her.

"Oh, perfectly," he grinned. "Wait until you see it. It's beautiful. Thousands of dead British soldiers...I couldn't contain my excitement."

* * *

As Alfred and Francis broke through the circle of trees, Alfred automatically raised his gun and scanned the immediate vicinity as best he could – a reaction from a soldier, but he couldn't stop his eyes straying to the prone nation lying only a few feet away. Francis had already hurried over, kneeling beside Arthur and slowly but surely turning him onto his back, and after a few seconds, unable to contain himself, Alfred abandoned his guard and hurried over to help. What he saw made his stomach plummet.

Arthur's lower face and chest were covered with precious blood. He was gasping for oxygen; his right wrist pointed at an odd angle and held stiffly, multiple knife wounds visible from the tattered clothes and a small gash over his eyebrows, accompanied by a deep purple bruise. Francis was handling him so delicately, but still Alfred wanted to shout at him to be careful, to watch what he was doing. The red symbol of a medic on Francis' jacket, however, muffled Alfred's panic and kept it bound.

The American dropped his gun on the ground and stepped over Arthur's body, not tearing his eyes away from the pale face. He knelt on his other side, reaching out to take Arthur's weight so Francis could retrieve the medical tools he needed from the pouch at his waist.

Suddenly, Alfred's head snapped up, and his gun was in his hand and aimed before Francis could ask what was wrong. Then he heard it – the unmistakable ring of a male voice, not deep enough to be Ludwig's, but not any of their allies, either. Alfred aimed his weapon over Francis's shoulder, but they didn't hear the voice again, and after a few nerve-wracking seconds of silence, Alfred eventually nodded to Francis to continue.

The Frenchman reached down and gently shook Arthur, bringing him back to the realm of the conscious while his other hand appraised his injuries. Arthur opened his eyes with a low, guttural moan, trying to push himself upright but not having enough strength to. He began to tremble, despite all his injuries, what little blood left in his face draining away.

"Shh, stop, stay there," Francis murmured, gently stroking Arthur's forehead, brushing the blonde locks back. "Don't panic, you're alright."

Arthur obviously knew otherwise, but he didn't set about protesting. Instead, his eyes found Alfred.

"What – what happened?" he stammered, his voice weak. His upper torso was gently convulsing, each movement accompanied by a harsh intake of breath.

Alfred glanced at the other blue-eyed nation. "Well, we were sitting, watching the battle, and we noticed how badly it seemed to be going for you. We couldn't see Germany anywhere, so we could only assume he'd found you. Then we heard you scream – at least, it must've been you – and ran into the forest to try to find you."

Arthur remained quiet for a few moments, digesting this information, and then a fact registered that made him inhale sharply and grip Alfred's wrist with his working one.

"How _badly_ it was going?" he repeated softly, his knuckles turning white. Alfred quickly twisted his fingers until they were safely holding hands, but the Englishman's grip was strong and desperate. "If I'm...that means my men..."

Neither country replied, and Arthur took a deep, shuddering breath. "Oh, God, my men...they're all dead..."

His gaze was so wide and uncomprehending that Alfred wished they had been able to keep the truth from him until he had properly recovered. The harsh sound of ripping fabric caught his attention and he saw Francis yanking open Arthur's jacket to better inspect the wound in his chest.

"_Mon cher_," Francis began slowly. "I apologise. I was not there."

Arthur shook his head quickly, his teeth clamped together. "You – you must be hurt too. Your men were out there..." He trailed off with a small whimper of pain.

Francis's eyes fluttered down to the bandage over his arm, covered by his sleeve, before back to Arthur. He'd been caught with a ricochet bullet from the battle, and considered himself lucky – at least he hadn't actually run in to Ludwig, or Roderich, or Elizabeta. "I'm fine," he answered. "You are in worse condition."

He pulled a white strip from his pouch and set about wrapping it around Arthur's chest, applying pressure and tying it in a firm knot once he was done. The grip on Alfred's hand tightened, but he didn't let go – instead, he reached across with his other arm to help Francis.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably as their fingers slid lower, centring on the injury on his hip. As he did so, the sudden movement made his vision black for a second, and he opened his eyes to see two concerned faces looking down at his. He let out a breath through his clamped lips as he realised that everything was now hurting a lot more now he realised he was tired. His body was betraying him – dragging his fully functional mind into the black abyss of pain.

"_Merde_," Francis cursed, pulling back. "I need Ivan, he's better with this sort of thing. Where is he?"

"I don't know, I last saw him an hour or so ago," Alfred said, but he stopped talking when he realised Arthur had assumed a look of intense concentration.

"He's here," the Englishman gasped. "Nearby. He heard how the battle was coming...came down here to see...aah!"

His head fell back as his back arched in protest of the agony.

"I can go get him," Alfred volunteered, but was once again stopped. Arthur raised his hand, the one with the broken wrist, and summoned a small purple flame. It danced in his glistening palm for a second, and then he turned it around and slammed it into the ground, screaming out as the snapped bone jolted in his skin. Alfred watched in awe as a vein of violet spread out from Arthur's outstretched fingers, heading away from them and into the darkness of the woods.

Francis didn't watch, but instead ripped open a packet of morphine. "That was an incredibly stupid thing to do." He tried to clear away the blood from the stab wound over Arthur's hip, eventually revealing a small, dark slit. He tutted, but the sound was short with worry.

"You're lucky he used the bayonet," he remarked. "Bullet from this distance might've killed you."

"I don't...feel lucky," Arthur panted, just as Ivan burst through the tree line and headed straight for them. He looked utterly unconcerned, which Alfred thought was a bit ruthless, but instead of voicing this aloud, he shifted as Ivan passed so he had enough room. The Russian knelt by Arthur's head.

"Bad wounds, my comrade," he grinned, the bright smile utterly unsuited for the situation. "Does it hurt?"

Arthur didn't reply, but instead growled in the back of his throat, his fingers flexing. Francis was now looking at his forehead, and Alfred didn't like the way the Englishman seemed so at ease with their closeness. The Frenchman raised a small strip of cloth and dabbed away the blood, coming closer to the dark bruise than Arthur would've liked. His instincts kept telling him to flinch away, but he held fast – Francis knew what he was doing.

And so did his magic.

He could feel it, stirring like an untamed animal in his chest. It was building, gathering strength, and he let his muscles relax in relief. He wasn't so weak, then, that he was completely incompetent.

Alfred was the one who first noticed: a few sparks dancing on Arthur's forehead, fizzing whenever they came into contact with his hair. Francis slowly drew back as they centred around the gash, sinking into the skin, lighting it from beneath. Arthur was staring vacantly into the distance, all his concentration focused on keeping his magic working. His fingers, clenched on Alfred's, were turning white.

It only took a few seconds for the sparks to do their job. The bruise slowly faded and the slash healed up, the skin patching together and keeping in the blood. Arthur jerked as the two knife wounds began to mend, a small trickle of red sliding out of the corner of his mouth and dropping onto the snow. Francis wiped it away almost mechanically.

The bone in his wrist reset almost cruelly, the sharp click audible to everyone else. The minute he could move his fingers properly again, Arthur let out a huge sigh and closed his eyes, tilting his head back from the exhaustion. Francis carefully supported his neck.

"Come on, we need to get him somewhere comfortable," he began. "It's going to take a while for him to regenerate."

Alfred immediately volunteered, picking Arthur up bridal-style. Normally, the other nation would've violently protested and insisted he could walk by himself, but it was a mark to just how much the battle and the healing had taken out of him that all he did was let out a small, unsatisfied groan.

Alfred bent his head so his lips were at Arthur's ear. "That," he whispered, "was amazing."

Arthur coughed once, in an attempt at a bitter laugh. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he muttered.

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**So...review? :D**


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